


The Sign of Three

by SilverFlameAlchemist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Deepthroating, Geralt gives wonderful head, I took to this pairing like Jaskier to the lute, I'm refusing to use their names to protect the innocent, Jaskier has to watch, Jaskier keeps getting into trouble, M/M, Monster Slaying, Multi, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Poly Pairing, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Switch Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Switch Jaskier, Threesomes, Warning for Mild Peril, also a fair amount of sex, but like in passing, clothing-related magic, lots and lots of flirting, sex-related magic, which to be clear is no one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverFlameAlchemist/pseuds/SilverFlameAlchemist
Summary: When the Sign of ThreeWoven in the Air and Water be,Then shall they rideThree astride,With Magic and Metal a-singing!(Or, what happens when two {mostly?} Immortals decide to bring a Bard into their bed)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 26





	1. Sly as a Fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Careful with the goods, darling," the Mage calls from where he's waving wards into being. "It's your second best attribute, that lute."
> 
> "What's my first?"

The tent is lit in dancing light, the flickering bouts of green flame painting the interior with emerald as the three enter.

The first is the Mage, kicking off his shoes and throwing his cloak off and over a convenient chair. A flick of his wrist, and they pick themselves up, floating into place. A few whispers, finger like a conductor's baton, and his clothes melt off him like water, replaced a moment later with a robe of silk and silver thread, woven in runes that wink and beguile.

The second is the Witcher, looking up in time to see the Mage's transformation, the long dead ghost of a smirk flickering over his lips before he dumps his pack by the door, stiff and sour with the stench of death. No sooner has he thought it, than a basin and towel appear on a tray beside him, a change of clothes soon joining them. He snorts, mouth hiking into a smile before he starts unbuckling his armor.

The third is the Bard, nearly tripping over the Witcher's pack as he gazes around himself in wonder, mouth agape as his bag slips from his grasp, lute tumbling across the floor with a thrum.

"Careful with the goods, darling," the Mage calls from where he's waving wards into being. "It's your second best attribute, that lute."

"What's my first?"

"Not your personality," the Witcher snorts, wiping the blood from his face with a grimace.

"Ah yes, because you're _winning_ in that regard," the Bard snipes back with a sneer. "Dear Sir, where can I--"

He yelps as a stool finds its way under him, hoisting him up and carrying him to a table set with food and tankards.

"Was that necessary?"

"Yes," the Mage winks. "Clothes?"

"Magic clothes?"

"There's no such thing," the Witcher earns two eager gazes, scars winking white like starlight in the dancing flames.

He feels them watching, and takes his time, dropping his shirt to the floor with a sigh.

The Bard makes a noise of surprise and _something_ _else_ as his clothes change, now a loose robe with warm fur to line it.

The Witcher sits on the chair that makes itself available, sprawling back against the pillows.

He sees the Mage wince as he lowers his arm, and frowns.

"Come here," he beckons. "Let me take a look at that shoulder."

The Mage settles on the edge of the seat, and the Witcher runs his palm along the muscle. It's warm to the touch--warmer than it should be, and he adds pressure, easing along the muscle and down the Mage's arm.

"You didn't tell me you were hurt."

"You didn't ask."

"Sit back."

The Mage doesn't move, so the Witcher adjusts his grip, pulls him back flush to his chest, holds him steady until he relaxes, and then smirks again.

"Was that so hard?"

"Hang on," the Bard frowns as the Witcher continues his work. "How come _he_ gets to sit in your lap and get a massage?"

"Because he behaves himself."

"He _just didn't_."

The Mage makes a sound of _something else_ as the Witcher adds pressure, cooling his hand with a whispered spell.

"He knows _when_ to behave himself," the Witcher corrects, smug even to his own ears.

The Mage pats his thigh and he stops, slowly releasing the pressure.

"Thank you."

"Doesn't your magic cover first aid?" The Bard sulks.

"It does," the Mage smiles, sly as a fox. "But I can't tease you with _that,_ darling."


	2. "He has excellent taste, then."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What is happening, here?" He mouths, setting his bag by the door and motioning to the--the--whatever it is.

The Mage is sleeping when the Bard enters the tent, mouth already open to give the Witcher a Piece of His Mind™️, but he halts when he sees the scene inside.

The Mage is asleep, seemingly, draped over the Witcher's lap and shoulder, and the Witcher is wearing a look the Bard knows means "make a sound and it's the last you ever will", so he snaps his mouth shut.

"What is happening, here?" He mouths instead, setting his bag by the door and motioning to the--the--whatever it is.

"Collapsed after a spell," the Witcher whispers back, and the Bard hates that he can hear it clearly from across the tent.

How does he  _ do _ that.

"Thought you didn't like mages, as a rule?" The Bard settles on a seat nearby, seeing now that the Mage has dark circles around his eyes and he wonders what magic did this.

"I like this one," The Witcher smiles, and it crosses into  _ fond _ territory.

The Mage shifts, hand clutching the Witcher's pendant, and the Bard has to stop himself from  _ dying _ when the Witcher shushes him back to sleep, smoothing a hand over his hair, whispering something in Elder that the Bard doesn't recognize.

The Mage makes a noise like a name, shivering, and the Bard picks up his lute from where it's arrived beside him, fingers feather light on the strings, a lullaby he heard as a child.

The Mage quiets, hand slipping from the pendant to the Witcher's chest, and the Witcher sighs, sitting back, and smiles at the Bard.

It's fond, again, and he thinks he might already be dead.

"Thought you didn't like bards, either," he whispers, for something to do.

The Witcher looks him dead in the eye and he resigns himself to a painful death.

"I like you."

It stirs something in his chest he doesn't want to deal with right now (not with the Mage  _ asleep  _ and  _ cuddling  _ with the Witcher), so he looks back at his lute, continues playing.

He's right near the end, just a few notes left, when the Witcher speaks again.

"Play Toss a Coin to Your Witcher, next," he doesn't look at the Bard, but his tone manages to come out playful. "It's one of his favorites."

The Bard looks from the Mage to the Witcher and back. His chest stirs again, and this time he lets it alone.

"He has excellent taste, then."


	3. blood and guts and swamp something everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mage leads them up a back staircase and through a door that the Bard doesn't remember being there before, and they find themselves in a warm room with a crackling fire, some bread and beer on a table, and one very large, delightful-looking bed.
> 
> "Dibs on the bath first," the Mage groans, dumping his pack by the bed.

The Mage enters the inn alone, leaving the Witcher and the Bard outside to watch the horses and each other.

He isn't gone long.

He smiles sweetly to the girl behind the counter and slides her too much coin and asks for a room for the night and a stable and she giggles and gives him both.

He comes back and the glamour fades, his face covered in scratches and carnage.

The Bard gulps.

"Well?" The Witcher sounds as tired as the Mage looks, blood and guts and swamp _something_ everywhere.

"The best for us and the horses," he rubs the neck of his dapple and whispers to soothe the beast.

"Mm." The Witcher almost sounds pleased, which means quite a lot, and leads his horse toward the stables.

The Mage follows, and soon a boy is brushing them down, a clutch of coins pressed into his pocket with a quick whisper to forget the state they're in.

He nods and they know he's good for it.

The Mage leads them up a back staircase and through a door that the Bard doesn't remember being there before, and they find themselves in a warm room with a crackling fire, some bread and beer on a table, and one very large, delightful-looking bed.

"Dibs on the bath first," the Mage groans, dumping his pack by the bed.

"Now wait--" the Bard begins.

"Second," The Witcher growls, staring near literal daggers at the Bard.

"There won't be any _bath_ left!"

"Good," the Mage shucks off his ruined boots and jerkin. "We're in this state because of you."

"I didn't _know_ she was a Siren!"

"She had _a tail,"_ the Witcher snaps.

"Yes, and _very_ nice breasts; guess which I noticed first."

The Mage makes a sound of disgust, echoed by the Witcher, and the Bard sulks to the table.

He watches the Mage from the corner of his eye, guilt gnawing at his gut as he sees the claw marks on his back, hears the faint whimper as he pulls his shirt over his head.

"Here," the Witcher moves to him, his hands wiped clean, and pulls it the rest of the way over his head. "I'll get some oil for that."

"There's some in--" the Bard starts.

"I know," the Witcher hisses.

The Mage limps to the bath and lowers himself in, groaning.

"Fuck," says the Witcher, with all the cheer of a graveyard.

"Please don't say that," the Bard sighs. "Why? What is it?"

"We only have one bottle."

"There were--"

The Witcher holds up two broken glass bottles, "You're right. There _were_."

"Oh."

"Courtesy of your girlfriend."

"I--" he stops, head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was an idiot, and I'm sorry I got him hurt and you-- hideously filthy. I'm _sorry_."

The Witcher crosses to him, holding out the bottle.

He takes it, shaking his head.

"I'm not the only one you need to apologize to."

"Right."

The bathwater smells like lavender and oak and steam curls off the surface in dancing shapes. The Mage is curled forward, the worst of the wound above the water, hair wet and slicked back out of his face.

"I, uh," the Bard clears his throat, out of words and out of his depth. "Would you like me to leave the oil with you, or...?"

He didn't know or what, _or I can beg you to forgive me and not curse me for eternity_?

"Can you put it on?"

"Yes?"

The Mage glances at him, smirking, "you don't sound so sure, darling."

"I'm sorry," he blurts, darting forward to smear the oil over the wound. "I'm so sorry. I--"

He swallows the rest when he hears the Mage giggle.

"You noticed her _tits_ before you noticed her fucking _tail_? Really?"

He isn't sure whether to be offended or relieved. He settles for bratty.

"I'm a simple man," he begins.

"Got that right," the Witcher adds, limping past them to wash his face in the basin.

The Bard pretends not to notice that he's wearing _absolutely nothing, "_ "In my defense, her tits were _above_ the water, her tail was _not_."

"He has a point," the Mage chuckles.

"And we have no clothes," the Witcher grumps.

"I can make us clothes in the morning," the Mage sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "No more magic tonight, though."

The Bard kneels in front of the bath, carefully painting more oil over the thin cuts to the Mage's face.

"Let us take care of you, tonight, then," he whispers. "Give you everything you ask for; everything you want."

The Mage blushes, under all the scratches, and the Bard grins in his most rakish way.

"Perhaps even more than that, too~"

"Awfully bold words for someone who got my tent destroyed," the Mage reminds him. "You'll be lucky if I let you on the bed."

"He'll be unbearable tomorrow if you don't," the Witcher reminds him.

"That is actually very true," the Bard admits. "I do need my beauty sleep."

The Mage laughs, and they find it contagious.


	4. Alternative Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher was behind the Mage, just finishing drawing a line in the earth with his sword. The circle he'd drawn encompassed the Mage, the tent, and the very unfortunate clutch of rabbits they'd rounded up for the spell.

The tent, or what was left of it after the Siren, was spread out on the ground at the Mage's feet.

The Bard, happy to sit back and watch rather than get roped into  _ another _ magic ritual, scribbled notes about words that rhymed with "Witcher" and "Mage" in order to regale their next inn with the story of the Siren (sans his stupidity).

The Witcher was behind the Mage, just finishing drawing a line in the earth with his sword. The circle he'd drawn encompassed the Mage, the tent, and the very unfortunate clutch of rabbits they'd rounded up for the spell.

The Bard had protested, until the Mage asked if  _ he'd _ rather pay the price for the tent's magic.

"Ready," the Witcher muttered, pressing his hand flat between the Mage's shoulder blades.

He stepped over the line, and the circle started to glow.

His hand never left the Mage's back.

The Bard had seen him do Magic--mostly clothing related, now that he thought about it--but this was...more. This was  _ making _ , and he'd never seen the Mage  _ make _ something before.

The chanting started, and his pencil stilled against the page.

The tent, now mostly torn fabric and only one pole, started to rise, as if invisible fingers were plucking up the corners and pulling them skyward. Runes he recognized started to shimmer into being, and one of the rabbits turned to ash.

The Witcher dropped his sword and put his other hand on the Mage's waist.

The Bard made a note to complain about that later.

Another ash pile joined the first, and the tent took form, the poles growing up from the ground like fresh saplings.

Another rabbit, another layer of runes, and finally the entrance appeared with a sound like reality ripping in half.

The tent dropped to the ground, upright and intact, and so did the Mage.

The Witcher caught him, pulling him back to lean against his chest and the Bard jumped to his feet.

"Can I-" the Bard began.

"Don't cross the circle!" The Witcher snapped. "He's not done."

"Oh, fuck, there's  _ more _ ?"

The Mage wiped his nose, which had started bleeding at some point, and flicked the blood across the front of the tent.

The fabric shimmered scarlet for a moment before it settled back to rich emeralds and teals.

"Now it's done," the Mage panted. "Next time, we take it down  _ before _ we fight the monster."

"Can you walk?" The Witcher asked, in a tone that made it apparent he already knew the answer.

"I probably shouldn't."

"Bard, sword," he instructed, scooping the Mage effortlessly into his arms. "Don't break the circle."

"Don't break--I know how  _ magic works _ , Witcher."

He makes a sound of doubt, and the Bard snatches up the sword.

He does make a point to  _ not _ break the circle, though.

The Witcher carries the Mage to the tent, he touches his bloodied hand to the front, and the curtains part for them.

The Bard's never seen it like this, freshly made, and as they enter, the decor flickers into being like the green flame lanterns, and he feels warm and safe all at once.

The Witcher lays the Mage on a bed built for three, and the Bard nearly trips over his own feet.

That wasn't there before.

The Mage is bleeding from the mouth, too, the Bard realizes, and he digs through his pack for the tonic the Mage had pressed on him two days prior.

"What a darling," the Mage giggles, eyes glassy and sweat prickling over his brow. "Look at him, Witcher--being so thoughtful and helpful."

The Witcher grunts, but at least he sounds marginally pleased, and the Bard gives the Mage his most winning smile.

"May I help tend you, my Lord?"

Something sparks behind the glassy film of fever, and those eyes are directed towards him, a grin following.

"Oh, I wish you would."

Something warm trickles into his belly, and he bites back a sound he doesn't know the origin of.

"First, drink this," the holds the bottle aloft. "Please?"

"Mm, if you feed it to me."

The Bard feels a blush creep up the back of his neck, and the Mage must see it or sense it or  _ something _ , because he laughs, shaking his head.

"I can't move my limbs, darling."

"Oh." That's concerning, isn't it? He feels like he should be concerned. "From the bottle, or...?"

"Watch it," the Witcher growls, all feral protectiveness.

"I'd very much like to watch anything our dear Mage does," the Bard banters back with a wink to their patient. "But my question still stands."

"I think I'll take that  _ or _ option," the Mage grins up at him. "Please?"

It's the magic word that makes the Bard melt, just a little, and he unstoppers the bottle with perhaps too much enthusiasm, but no one comments, so he pretends it doesn't matter.

It probably doesn't.

He looks between them both, realizing they're both watching him eagerly, and he feels suddenly on the spot.

"Bottoms up," he grins, taking a swig and leaning down to press his lips to the Mage's.

He tastes like blood and flint and starlight and the Bard wonders how anyone ever  _ stops _ kissing him…

He does, but only because the Mage has swallowed the tonic and also part of his tongue and if he doesn't stop now, he might never.

He thinks the Witcher would take umbrage with that, so he pulls back, slowly, and hears the Mage make a sound of loss that goes  _ right _ to his cock.

"Fuck."

"I'd love to, but I still can't move my limbs."

The Witcher growls, so faint they almost miss it, and the Mage throws him a wild grin, eyes the same.

"Calm down, darling," he teases. "You'd be invited."

He settles, and the Bard looks back at the bottle. There's still more.

"How are you feeling?" He asks. "Need another dose?"

"It certainly wouldn't hurt."

The Bard offers the bottle to the Witcher and raises his eyebrows in challenge.

"Would you do the honors?"

It's a trap, and they all know it, but the Witcher takes the bottle anyway, eyes it for a moment, then looks to the Mage.

"Please?" He repeats.

The Bard thinks it does similar things to the Witcher as it did to him, because he downs the rest of the bottle and leans over the bed.

It's different, watching the kiss happen.

The Witcher is so gentle it almost isn't a kiss at all, but the Mage is insistent and there's medicine to deliver, and after what feels like  _ ages _ the two part and the Witcher looks almost out of breath.

The Bard is beyond impressed and also hard.

"Fuck." The Witcher agrees.

"Later," the Mage promises, his eyes fluttering. "But first I need sleep."

The Bard plops himself on one side of the bed, pulling his lute from seemingly thin air.

He starts to strum a lullaby, and the Witcher settles in on the Mage's other side, watching the Bard's fingers.

He's never felt so flattered.


	5. Good Night, I say to you, Not Quite Morning!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bard on his other side stirs, and the Mage turns to look at him.
> 
> His hair is mussed and his jerkin went missing some time in the night, but as he blinks his eyes open he smiles and shifts closer and makes a noise of contentment the moment he winds his arm through the Mage's.
> 
> "Morning."

The Mage wakes with a start and a startled cry, and finds a hand on his chest pushing him gently back onto the bed, a whisper at his ear.

"Hush, you're safe. We're here."

He turns to see the Witcher beside him, brows furrowed and hand splayed over his chest, solid and warm and heavy.

His head drops back to his pillow and he takes stock.

His legs are still prickling with pins and needles, the paralysis lingering but nearly gone. His arms move as they should, and when he speaks, his voice doesn't sound hoarse.

"How long?"

"It's just passed dawn," he whispers back. "How are you?"

"Alive."

He chuckles, and the Mage manages a laugh of his own.

The Bard on his other side stirs, and the Mage turns to look at him.

His hair is mussed and his jerkin went missing some time in the night, but as he blinks his eyes open he smiles and shifts closer and makes a noise of contentment the moment he winds his arm through the Mage's.

"Morning."

"Not quite yet."

"Oh, fuck that, then," he huffs, pointedly closing his eyes. "Good  _ night _ I say to you, not quite yet morning!"

The Mage laughs again, louder, and the lanterns in the tent flicker to life.

"No," the Bard groans, turning his face to hide it against the Mage's hair. "No _lights,_ it's still _night_ _time_."

"Insufferable," the Witcher sighs.

"You suffer me daily and you enjoy it," the Bard shoots back. "I know your secret."

The Witcher raises an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, and the Bard shivers into the Mage.

The Mage, grinning, turns to look at him again.

"Darling, is that a lute in your pocket, or are you just happy to see us?"

His jaw works, but no words come out.

"Clearly  _ part of you _ thinks it's morning," the Witcher has the  _ gall _ to say.

"Fuck you," the Bard snaps.

"You wish."

"Boys," the Mage interjects, grinning. "Please."

The Bard goes back to nuzzling into the Mage and the Witcher frowns at them both.

"I'll find us breakfast," he mutters after a moment, standing from the bed.

"I'll take some crispy bacon and four eggs, please," the Bard giggles. "Maybe some toast, if you have it."

"You're lucky I'm not dragging you with me," he growls back.

"One of us has to stay here to look after the invalid," the Bard nods seriously. "I'm obviously the best for the job."

"Mm." The Witcher doubts.

"If you're not back by midday, I'll find you," the Mage smiles, a promise to him and a threat to everyone else. "Don't be late."

"Don't break the circle, either," the Bard puts in ~~un~~ helpfully.

"I know how fucking  _ magic works _ , Bard."

"Fucking magic?" The Bard cracks an eye open, sharing the joke with the Mage. "Do you know how to do that, My Lord?"

"Maybe I'll show you," the Mage whispers back.

"I'm leaving," the Witcher announces, in a way that makes it sound like he doesn't want to.

"Thank you," the Mage looks him in the eye, smiles soft and sincere and so  _ gently _ that he almost stays. "I'll make him behave till you get back."

The Witcher snorts, but he's smiling, "good luck."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher stands in the door, staring, still not entirely sure what's happening, but very invested in finding out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toldja there'd be sex.

When the Witcher returns, it's to find the Bard on his back, the Mage straddling his hips, tossing his head back with a cry as he climaxes.

"Oh, fuck," the Bard hisses, head hitting the pillow. "Fuck, he's back."

The Mage shudders through the aftershocks, giving the Witcher a heated look, "I win."

The Witcher stands in the door, staring, still not entirely sure what's happening, but very invested in finding out.

The Mage laughs, leaning down to kiss up the Bard's chest, over his neck, and finally to his ear, whispering something even the Witcher can't hear.

"The fuck?" He finally speaks, dropping the rabbits he'd found for breakfast.

(They land conveniently in a pot and he tries not to be disappointed--he was  _ trying to make a statement.) _

"I bet the Bard he couldn't make me come before you got back," the Mage is grinning, slowly pushing himself off the Bard, much to the Bard's enjoyment and apparent torture. "What do you think, Witcher, did he win?"

"No."

"Oh  _ fuck off _ ," the Bard hisses, hands spasming where they rest against the Mage's hips. "You walked in  _ right _ as it happened."

"Then technically I got back before he finished," the Witcher growls. "So it doesn't count."

"Mmm--means you owe me another one," the Mage draws lazy patterns over the Bard's chest, rocking his hips gently back against the Bard's cock.

"Fuck," the Bard's hips twitch, but it looks like he's still trying to catch his breath.

The Mage kisses his forehead, soft and sweet, and gingerly picks himself up off him, fingers tracing signs over his chest as magic sparks across his skin, cleaning the sweat and sticky come from his skin, robing him in something soft and loose and (if the Witcher is being perfectly honest) alluring.

"Breakfast," the Witcher grumbles, tearing his eyes from the scene on the bed.

"Started," the Mage replies, flicking his wrist.

The Witcher frowns as the rabbit is cleaned and seasoned and added to what smells like it's going to be a delicious stew.

"You're still recovering," he complains.

"I've enough energy for  _ this _ , darling," the Mage stalks over to him, hands akimbo as green eyes stare up into gold. "Besides, you look too distracted to do it properly."

He feels he should be offended, but he knows the Mage is right.

He manages to keep his gaze on the Mage's face, but only just. "I'm fine."

"You certainly are," the Mage looks him over, approvingly, and catches his bottom lip between his teeth. "With breakfast handled, would you...?"

He trails off, tilting his head to indicate the bed where the Bard has finally caught his breath and is watching them both with an intensity that makes the Witcher growl in the back of his throat.

"You could show him how it's done," the Mage winks.

The Bard gasps, the image of injured pride, and the Witcher snorts in what's almost a laugh.

"No magic, I promise," the Mage whispers, just for him. "I'll take it slow."

The Witcher holds his gaze as he undoes the first buckle on his jerkin, "Promise?"

The Mage shivers, hands clenching into fists with the effort of not divesting him of all his garments _right_ _now_.

"I promise, Witcher."

He undoes another buckle, and the Mage sucks in a breath through his nose.

"Pay attention, Bard," he smirks. "You'll want to remember this."

"You bet your sweet ass I will," he's already rummaging for pencil and paper as the Witcher slides one paldron off onto the floor. "Gods, that's--"

"Silently," the Witcher puts in, pinning the Bard with a gaze that makes him melt. "Or else I'll stop."

The Mage makes a noise not unlike a whimper, and the Witcher looks back at him with a raised eyebrow.

"And none of us want that, do we?"

"No," the Mage breathes, backpedaling into a convenient chair as the Witcher stalks slowly forward, the second paldron going the same way as the first.

He braces a hand on the back of the chair, leaning into the Mage's space as he undoes another buckle, the leather armor sliding off him and onto the floor.

The Mage's hips twitch upward, and the Witcher lowers his gaze, slow and deliberate, to the Mage's weeping cock.

He flicks his gaze back up and licks his bottom lip.

The Mage gasps, knuckles turning white against the arms of the chair, and his legs spread just enough for the Witcher to slip between them.

He does, leaning forward and in, voice against the Mage's ear in a low rumble, "get on the bed, boy."

The Mage slowly pushes himself from the chair, and the Witcher straightens with him, giving him room to get on his feet.

He wobbles slightly, and the Witcher puts a hand on his hip.

It's practically a reflex, at this point, steadying him when he stumbles--the Witcher wonders when it became commonplace, and he can't remember. It feels like lifetimes ago.

Maybe it was.

He catches the way the Mage's eyes soften, lips twitching up in a tiny smile, before the Witcher tightens his grip and the smile is replaced with a gasp, and the Mage's eyelids flutter.

"Take it slow," the Witcher instructs, skating his hand higher, drawing the Mage into his chest.

"Is that how you'll take me?" He grins, arms snaking up to wrap around the Witcher's neck, pressing into him in a long, hard line. "Or will it be with reckless abandon?"

The Witcher lifts him with one arm clamped around his waist, spinning them both and tossing him onto the bed.

The Mage yelps, bouncing with a laugh, and the Bard swears loudly as he lunges out of the way.

"Watch it!" He huffs.

"That's your job," the Witcher shoots back, throwing him a smirk. "You might even get a song out of it."

"Oh, a real brothel ballad, I think," the Mage adds, waggling his eyebrows at the Bard. "It'll be in demand before you know it!"

The Bard gives them both filthy looks, but he doesn't stop scribbling.

The Witcher returns all his attention to the Mage, and he flushes under the intensity of it.

The Witcher tugs his shirt off and crawls up the bed, lips and fingers tasting and touching and drawing out little gasps from his prey.

He drags his lips over the Mage's chest, tongue flickering out to taste, and nips at the Mage's shoulder when he hears a whisper of Elder.

"Fuck," the Mage presses his hands to the Witcher's chest, fingers desperate for purchase. "Reflex, sorry, I didn't--"

The Witcher kisses the hollow below his ear, and the Mage moans.

"I'll let it slide," he purrs.

The Mage's hips jump off the bed, pressing his cock up against the Witcher's hip, and he lets out a groan at the friction.

The Witcher kisses his pulse just to feel it pound.

"Witcher," the Mage begs, grabbing his arms and squeezing.

The Witcher looks him in the eye, holding his gaze for a long moment before he leans in and kisses him, wild and reckless as a hurricane.

The Mage moans into his mouth, and beside them the Bard makes an obscene noise of his own.

The Witcher rolls his hips down into the Mage's, and he gasps into his mouth. He catches the Mage's bottom lip between his teeth and gives a tiny tug before he releases it, mouthing his way back down to the Mage's now very hard cock.

He locks eyes with the Bard and licks his lips.

"Fucking--GODS, Witcher, you can't just--" he blurts, scarlet and shuddering.

"Shhh, shh, Darling, please--!" The Mage gasps, shaking his head.

"Mm, he was provoked, I suppose," the Witcher allows, settling between the Mage's legs, hand splayed warm and heavy over his hip.

"You  _ suppose-- _ ?" The Bard starts, before snapping his mouth shut and shaking his head furiously.

The Witcher pauses, lips parted and poised to take the Mage's head into mouth, and raises an eyebrow at the Bard.

He doesn't take the bait, breathing hard, and the Witcher closes his mouth over the Mage's head.

He arches off the bed with a moan, and the Witcher holds his hips steady as he inches down onto him.

The Mage's hands tangle in the sheets to keep them from forming spells, and he gasps out the Witcher's name.

The Witcher hums in response, and the Mage swears instead.

The Witcher works over him slowly, thoroughly, enjoying every moan and twitch and gasp he draws from the Mage--mirrored in the Bard's sighs and bitten lips as he keeps quiet and keeps watching, keeps writing.

The Witcher decides he's going to reward the Bard for his good behavior.

_ After _ breakfast.

The Mage puts a hand in the Witcher's hair, and he returns all his attention to him, touching him in all the right ways all at once. The hand in his hair tightens, pulling gently--a warning.

The Witcher decides he's hungry, and presses forward until the Mage is buried in his throat.

" _ Fuck-- _ !" The Mage gasps, arching off the bed as he climaxes, eyes wide and lips parted, sitting up to watch as the Witcher looks up and into his eyes, smirking around him as he swallows.

"Son of a  _ fuck _ ," the Mage pants, flopping back onto the bed, gasping for breath.

The Witcher chuckles as he pulls back, licking his lips before he drops onto the bed beside the Mage, pressing close and whispering into his ear.

"Good boy."

The Mage bites his lips shut and shudders.

"Learn anything, Bard?" The Witcher prompts, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

The Bard swallows thickly, glancing from his paper to the Witcher and back, "yes?"

"You don't sound so sure."

"I'd have to test my--findings, in order to...see the result," the Bard answered cryptically.

"The fuck does that mean?" The Witcher frowns.

"He needs to fuck it out, before he'll know if he likes it," the Mage answers, grinning sleepily from where he's found his way under the Witcher's arm. "You should do that. I can finish breakfast."

The Witcher looked expectantly at the Bard, eyebrows raised.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You knew when to behave yourself," the Witcher smirked. "You've earned a reward."

The Bard's eyes lit up, "oh I like the sound of that."


	7. Barely any Gold, for All the Black

"Well?" The Witcher prompts.

"Well what?"

The Witcher rolls his eyes, almost fondly, and grabs the Bard's hand, dragging him onto the bed. He doesn't resist, instead grinning as he's tugged along.

"Well," the Witcher repeats, lips against his ear. "What do you want for a reward?"

The Bard glamces to the Mage, but his back is turned and the Witcher is nosing against his neck, insistent and curious, and he makes a noise in his throat that he wants the Witcher to swallow.

"What--what you were doing," he clears his throat. "That...looked fun."

"Did it, now?" The Witcher's hand slides under his robe and over his bare hip. "Is that what you want? My mouth on you?"

He licks his lips and looks heavenward for help.

"I-I was actually thinking…" He walks his fingers up the inside of the Witcher's thigh, smirking as he shifts to give the Bard more room to work, cock straining against the front of his trousers. "The other way round?"

"Oh," it's a gasp against his ear, and he revels in how  _ surprised  _ the Witcher sounds. "Right."

The Bard looks up and grins, "Show you what else my mouth is good for."

The Witcher's eyes snap to his lips, and he licks them slowly for emphasis.

"Fuck."

"Ever eloquent," the Bard grins, straddling the Witcher's hips. "What else could I have you gasping, I wonder?"

The Witcher growls, low in his chest, and the Bard traces over the dip of his collarbone, enjoying the way the Witcher's hips shift and twitch with every touch. The Bard hadn't expected him to  _ behave-- _

But then again, this is _ his _ reward.

He bites his lip and just  _ looks _ at him--hair mussed from the Mage's hands, eyes dark and hungry, mouth set just  _ so. _

A whisper of his name pulls the Bard back, and he hums.

"Sorry, Handsome," he puts his hands on the Witcher's shoulders, pushing himself up, just slightly, before he settles back into the Witcher's lap, directly over his cock. "Just enjoying the view."

He feels a hand on his hip, calloused and rough against his smooth skin, and he rolls his hips down into the Witcher's, rocking their cocks together with just enough friction but not  _ nearly  _ enough.

" _ Fuck, _ " the Witcher squeezes his hip and he knows it'll leave a bruise.

"That is the plan here, yes," the Bard grins, grinding down hard into him. "But it's so  _ rewarding _ to see you like this first."

The Witcher grabs both his hips and growls, low and dangerous and so  _ good _ \--

"Go on, Witcher," the Bard leans in, lips brushing over his, hand straying to the back of his neck. "Tell me."

"I want your mouth on me, Bard," he hisses. Then, after another roll of the Bard's hips, " _ Please _ ."

The Bard kisses him.

The Witcher makes a noise in the back of his throat, and before the Bard knows it, the Witcher's tongue is tangling with his own and he pulls the Witcher's hair.

The Witcher pulls back, just a little, and the Bard hums.

He makes a note to ask the Mage about the signal system he apparently has the Witcher trained to because  _ that's a thing-- _

He kisses the Witcher's throat, and he tips his head so easily and eagerly that the Bard just has to slip a hand between them to start getting his trouser laces out of the way. He kisses down his throat, over his pulse ( _ steady and sure and strong and fuck--) _ , reverently places featherlight kisses to each scar he finds on his way down to his reward.

He gets the Witcher's cock free, and groans, "oh  _ fuck me _ ."

The Witcher  _ grins _ , the cad.

But then his hand is on the Bard's jaw, tipping his face up so he can look him in the eye. There's barely any gold left, for all the black.

"Don't push yourself," he whispers.

The Bard can't believe he has the  _ balls _ to be gentle right now, they were going to  _ fuck _ for Gods' sake.

"Only thing I'm planning to push," he says instead, lips brushing over the Witcher's head. "Is you--to your absolute limit."

The Witcher's head falls back as he bites down on a half-formed moan, and the Bard settles his cock on his tongue, testing the angle, before he wraps his lips around him and hums.

The Witcher doesn't hold in his groan that time.

He pets the Bard's hair as he sinks down once, fully, eyes wide open as he watches the Witcher react.

He swallows around him, once, and then pulls back and starts picking up speed, watching for each little tell that gives away how  _ good _ he makes the Witcher feel.

He starts humming (the first song he wrote about him, actually, but he doesn't expect him to recognize it), and the Witcher's hips jump.

He decides he'll definitely ask him to fuck his mouth later.

He dives back down on him again, speeding up, and the Witcher tightens a hand into his hair. He keeps his pace and moans.

The hand in his hair pulls, and he nearly comes off, but he's having  _ none of that, _ thank you, so he looks the Witcher in the eye and takes him as deep as he can.

" _ Fuck _ ."

The Bard moans around him, and the Witcher's breath stutters as he climaxes.

The Bard strokes the Witcher's thigh as he pulls back, slowly, before he grins up at him.

"That was fun."

The Witcher hauls him up by his robe and kisses him.

He doesn't complain.

**Author's Note:**

> This is like Some Assembly Required, but with Witcher, because that's where I'm at, right now.
> 
> Interconnected ficlets, written with lots of love and probably lots of sex.


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